Shadows on the Sun
by Sage Pagan
Summary: I just had to write. Just some stuff I had to express. I managed to incorporate some Tekken into it, mainly from Julia's POV. Read if you want.
1. A Heart as well as a Mind

**I've been going through some tough times, just your regular, average problems that every other regular, average teenage girl goes through. Nothing too drastic. But instead of whining or putting on black clothes, I write. I didn't write this for reviews; heck, I don't write for reviews anyway. I didn't write this for your sympathy. I just need you to listen, if you can. Or just read. Many of you are good at that too, and that's fine. **

**I just had to write.**

* * *

--The Outsider-- 

We had a powwow a few weeks ago. It was my people's turn to shine. It was supposed to be good, supposed to make me feel alive. Instead, the moccasins felt too tight on my toes, and the feathers scratched the back of my neck. The drums made my head throb, and the long stares of the young boys, those pre-pubescent "braves" with their acne scars and beaded headdresses, did nothing to quell the discomfort. Once it was done I headed for my room, tore the outfit off and stored the turquoise away in exchange for a pair of worn blue jeans and a gray sweater I'd purchased a couple years ago at Target. It was like breaking out of some kind of cage, and I sighed in relief. But then I looked down at my jeans; I was disgusted too. Some white guy designed these jeans, I know it. Ha, ha. White guys designed the whole country nowadays. Maybe I should just go naked.

"I thought you were looking forward to this powwow. Didn't you want to dress up?" Yes.

"It's your culture. Suck it up for a couple hours." I did.

"Once you wear this, you'll be irresistible. Best quality dress, right here! We'll find you a nice Navajo boy, ok? Unless you don't like Navajo boys. Wait, do you prefer _white_ boys? Is that it? Black boys?"

No; ethnicity has nothing to do with it. I love who I love, get it?

I laugh as I look in the mirror and stuff a feather into my hair, adjusting my glasses. I look ridiculous. Who are you kidding, Julia Chang? White America or Native America, you still don't fit in. Exotic. Cool. Ugly. Lovely. But always an outsider.

* * *

--A Heart as Well as a Mind-- 

Speak.

Open your mouth and communicate; it isn't that hard. Open up. Reveal your mind. Tell me your secrets. Let me see that heart of yours. It's easier said than done. I tried. I opened my mouth to try and explain, to try and reach an understanding, and all that escaped was a cold silence, a muteness mistaken for stupidity and malice, and you leaped down my throat to try to dig out those unspoken words; I choked. Don't get me wrong; I can speak. I can be eloquent and arrogant and elegant and brash. But only when I choose. I love you, don't doubt that, but let me have something of my own too, Michelle.

Speak. I tried. But I'm back to square one, and I've pushed them away again. Something's been lost.

But when I put my pen to the paper, the words come alive. Release. Understanding. Coherence. Alive, alive, alive, I feel so alive. Expressed, I am expressed. Invisible I am not. Euphoria. When I put my brush to the canvas, the images come to life, colors abundant, violent, intoxicating, raw and real and honest, hidden and vile, gentle and sweet, sweet, sweet. Expressed, I am expressed.

I had a dream once. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, straining my vocal chords until it hurt, until my head ached, screaming as if it would tear me to pieces. Screaming, screaming, screaming, over and over and over. It was strange; I'd never heard myself utter such a noise. They weren't screams of terror or rage. I just wanted to hear myself, because for once, words had become useless.

I think it was my heart screaming. _Listen to me, remember me; you still have a heart as well as a mind, little sage. Don't forget me. Here. Let me remind you, stupid…_All the anguish, all the frustration and guilt and disappointment and love and regret, shoved into one night's dream of shrill cries, cries which could only be heard through the bittersweet confines of a dream—a dream come to life within a mind with too much reign over the heart. _Pathetic_, isn't it? A poetic and idealistic notion, the stuff of dramas and shitty romance, angst novels, but in reality just pathetic and idealistic and incoherent.

But how else can I explain the emotions without sounding too sappy? I guess my writing's deteriorating.

Outside, awake, aware, reality was very quiet. Inside, awake, aware, the dream wailed and clawed its way out.

The dream had been so vivid. I'd expected to hear my parents running to my room to see why I'd been screaming my lungs raw. But no one came. But it'd been so vivid. I'd been so sure. And so, closing my eyes, I thought about the person who could restore that calm to my heart, the sole person who might end that screaming…

It was during nights like these when I envisioned his face, heard his laughter and his voice. Lonely, cold, indigo nights like these that cradled my heart between its gnarled fingers and_ twisted_. Longing. It's a sickness. Love. I don't know what it is, but it makes me vulnerable. Naked. Warm and wanted. I hated it; I yearned for it. It didn't matter what went on during the day, what kind of smiles or stress, whether they yelled or laughed. It was the night that brought him to me. Hwoarang…he'd changed something in me. Words had become useless. Words were my weapon, yet now they had become obsolete. Love and pain are one and the same. They leave you in a state of awe; no amount of words can ever be sufficient.

Be more verbal, they say. It's embarrassing sometimes, to be verbal. Sometimes it comes out wrong. Then again, nothing ever comes out right except "Shit, I'm still disappointed." Hm.

"What are you thinking? What's on your mind?"

Be careful; retreat, Julia, retreat. My mind wins again. Jesus fucking Christ, just fuck logic. Fuck it—I can't. What's ironic is that I am ruled by emotions; I can get carried away if I'm not careful. It's always logic that saves me in the end, thrusts me back into reality; but what is reality? I've the mind of realist but the heart of a dreamer; or is it the other way around?

Maybe it is unhealthy to keep so silent, but that's why I was given a brush and a pen. Take those away and I am nothing; I'm gone. _An artist without a medium becomes dangerous._ But maybe I'm already gone. My mind still functions but my heart is dancing alone in the rain somewhere, bleeding and bruised, but still dancing like a fool. Dancing like a fool, pumping life and feeling within that lonely indigo gloom. Tell me, when do you know when to listen to your heart? When do you know when to listen to your mind? When and how do you choose?

Sagacious. Intelligent. Mature beyond your years. _Really?_ Is that all? I am admired for my mind, and maybe that's all I really want you to see. I am admired for that image, for those goody-two-shoes, as that Native American nerd hidden behind her glasses and novels and found walking between the trees. Leave me the hell alone—wait, I changed my mind. Look at me. Look at me, damn it.

And what do I want you to see?

"_Walk with your heart, not with your feet," _my mother once told me. And what if you don't know what that means? What if your mind is editing everything now as your heart speaks?

"You're a waste of space, and you never open up. Write something worthwhile for a change."

Worthwhile. Worthwhile. Aren't I worthwhile? It doesn't matter what anyone says; I and I alone can define my worth. And am I not desirable? Am I not worthy of this space, this time? I don't know. I guess. Yes, I _am_. Shit.

"I swear to you, I will never hurt you. I'll always be there for you."

I know Hwoarang means it. That's one thing my heart knows.

"You know, you don't have to write all the time. What are you writing about anyway? Sex? Having sex with boys?"

Why yes, indeed, all the time, Father, all the time. Can't you tell by what I'm writing now? Ha, ha, ha. Yes, my life's dream is to get a good, hard fuck from a boy.

I was standing in the dark in that dream, oddly detached, screaming for something, for something...wake up. Snap out of it. It's only a dream. In reality all is silent.

You know what? Loneliness is the loudest fucking noise in the world. I better find something else to listen to before I go deaf. Maybe The Gathering, maybe his voice, maybe my heart. Psh, listen to my heart; it's overrated. What does that mean anyway? Some cliché, right? "Always follow your heart, blah blah blah" bullshit. Sometimes it doesn't work out so great. I just better do something before these pens run out of ink, before my heart decides to scream forever in that dark, silent prison of dream.


	2. You Don't Know Me

--Personality Tests Only Reveal Half the Bullshit—

You don't know me. You don't. You really, really don't. And no, I'm not one for teen angst; I'm actually eighteen now, so this isn't some drama-wrist-cutting-give-me-attention-or-else-I'm-painting-my-eyes-and-fingernails-black sort of shit. I hate that sort of thing; people like that just need to open their eyes and fucking get a life.

But it's just the truth: nobody knows me. Depending on who I'm with, I let them see a particular glimpse, a mere shard of the huge mosaic. But hurt me, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Ask too many questions, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Judge me, use me, assume, and I'm gone. You'll never see me again. Oh sure, I'll be here, with my smile and my cordial words, but as for _me_…I won't be there.

So when I say you don't know me, I mean you don't know me. Not even Michelle. Especially Michelle. I mean, she knows a few things; I _am_ her daughter after all. But she's quite fond of making false assumptions.

Today Michelle claimed that I was "self-absorbed, ungrateful and selfish." She said that I only want to use her for her money. I actually laughed, because she has no idea how wrong she is, how much I love her. I was just trying to be nice. I didn't want her to worry. But my mother wants to know everything about what's going on with me, and I guess I can't very well blame her. She _is _my mother after all. But sometimes I like my privacy, and sometimes I want to figure things out before I tell her the whole story. The amusing, depressing part is that Mom thinks that she has me figured out, but she really, really doesn't. It's my fault; I'm afraid to let anyone in—even my own mother.

I guess you can say I'm a dreamer. Introverted. Idealistic. Caring. Shy. INFP. At least, that's what the personality tests tell me. And they're always right, but only half right.

According to Jung, I am a "Healer." An "INFP." We're reserved, shy, but have "a capacity for caring not always found in other types." We "care deeply—indeed, passionately—about a few special persons or a favorite cause" and aim to "bring peace and integrity to loved ones and to the world."

It's true. I care so deeply for some people that it actually hurts.

So…how can I be "self-absorbed, ungrateful and selfish" like Michelle accused me of being? That's one of the worst things you can say about me. The other worst thing you can say is that I am stupid or unreliable. If people call me a bitch, promiscuous, or cold, psh, I don't care, because I _know_ it isn't true. Go ahead, call me names; I don't get offended easily, trust me. But to hear words of that kind from my own mother…it's different. If my father had said something like that to me, I would have gotten angry, but blown if off easily. But when Michelle says it…it's like some kind of curse.

"A Healer's idealism leaves them feeling even more isolated from the rest of humanity."

Yes…I'm idealistic. I am part cynic, part dark-alternative-moody-brooding-artist-who-seeks-refuge-in-writing, martial arts, and drawing. But another part of me is that fucking idealistic little girl, that hopeless, naïve romantic who seeks the goodness in all things. One of my flaws is that I can find something good in almost anything, and at times this blinds me to the realities of cruelty, of the profane, of darkness and danger. Because I really just want to help you; I really just want you to be happy. But hell, most of the times I don't get anything in return, so I am alone in these little feats. So when I look at you with my wolf eyes and when I don't answer your questions or when I'm quiet or when I stammer and hold back, it's only because I know my idealism isn't worth it. It's only because I'm afraid, that I'm trying to figure you out. It's only because I know you'll laugh at me for being so hopelessly hopeful. It turns some people off, intimidates. It turns some people on, intrigues. Whatever you prefer.

But it gets lonely. The world doesn't appreciate dreamers anymore.

Solitude was my first best friend, my first real lover. Solitude and I go way back. We had a lot of good times, but in the end He just wasn't my type. Ha. Julia Chang the lone wolf.

"You don't know me, Michelle."

"_Nobody_ knows you, Julia!"

It's my fault. I want someone to know me. I was thinking maybe Hwoarang. Maybe I can let Hwoarang know me. I want him to know me. But…I don't know. I don't know anything anymore except that I'm Julia, and change is one hell of an exquisite nightmare.

* * *

--Discontentment—

I think I've come to the realization that I will never be content with myself.

People tell me not to be hard on myself. But I can't help it. If I can't be the best, then my whole sense of worth goes to hell for a little while. Whether it's martial arts, writing, school, art, public speaking, being a daughter, I have to do it to my best ability. And if I fail, or obtain something mediocre, then I get upset. Really upset. And no amount of consoling will make me feel better.

I hate that I'm emotional. But hey, I'm a woman, so that's actually _expected,_ am I right? But see that's the problem. I'm emotional, but people don't see it; I know how to mask it. I'm self-conscious, I don't want you to think I'm weak, so I can be stoic and quiet and that confuses people. It really messes shit up, and sometimes I laugh because that's exactly how I want you to feel. But sometimes…sometimes I want you to know _so badly_, because inside I'm being devoured by emotion's five-headed hydra.

According to that hardcover Health textbook, "Anger is a secondary emotion." Apparently some other emotion always precedes it, like sorrow, pain or fear. Maybe. Honestly though, sometimes I've just felt like destroying something with my bare hands for no reason, just to see it squirm in agony or to see it in little pieces, because then it'll make me forget my own pain and my own shortcomings. Oh wait. Pain. Primary emotion. Maybe that health book's right after all.

Not like I'm sadistic or anything. Regardless of how smart I am anger, alongside love, is another one of those emotions that I lack the brainpower to understand, to control. I hate not feeling in control. Or maybe it's "heartpower" that I'm lacking. Maybe "mature" is merely a euphemism for "cold and distant." Maybe "mysterious" is merely a euphemism for "anti social loner loser who'd rather escape to her sketchbook, forests and sparring rather than associate with that thing people call normal, healthy socialization with society." I can't decide, so you decide.

Maybe that's why everyone likes Ling Xiaoyu more than I. Xiao spews bullshit all the time; she speaks her mind and doesn't care how stupid she sounds, releases everything until she's as hollow as that brain of hers. She lets her emotions run rampant while I hold back, wary, analyzing, wondering and waiting for people to prove their worthiness. That's just me. And no, I don't try and be "mysterious" on purpose, though I've been told that that's one of my charms—and also one of my turnoffs. Sometimes I let you in; most times I don't. Xiao isn't like that at all. While she's flaunting her life story and her petty problems for the world to devour, I'm in the corner writing furiously and pummeling punching bags trying to keep my feelings under control, grinding my teeth to keep up that image and keep myself together. She sickens me. She intrigues me.

People like Xiao just let go. Open floodgates. No secrets. No depth. No damn _depth_. No mystery. Many find that endearing. It makes her easy to understand, makes her less of a threat, makes her transparent and fun and bubbly and popular and_ worthy of me wringing her neck_. It makes me jealous, and I _hate it_. I'm worth so much more, yet I envy her bubbly personality, not because I want to demean myself and become an imbecile, but because she _knows how to open up_. She isn't afraid. That makes her look incredibly stupid most of the times, yes—but it makes her less alone. It makes her less alone. And I admit I admire her for that.

Yes, go ahead, gasp. That is the sole reason for me admiring Xiao, and this is the only time I will ever say it.

Do I need to be more ditzy, is that it? Should I pretend? Should I go to amusement parks instead of libraries? Should I build a fancy time machine that'll probably never work instead of try and save my homeland from global warming? Should I give up books and walks in the woods for a big ass panda bear and a Jin Kazama fan club?

What should I do? I should stop being angry and stop comparing myself to others. If I don't, I'll never be happy.

Sometimes I wish I could slice out my personality and grow a new one. Most of the times, I thank the spirits that I am not like Xiao. But I'm a woman of contradictions and self-made euphemisms. I really wish I could be more content with who I am.

And why, do you suppose, am I writing all of this? Telling thousands, millions, of complete strangers all of this? If I can't even tell these types of things to my parents or closest friends, then why the hell should I even share this with _you_? I don't know. I guess because writing is where you can't see me, writing is where I can dream and live, live, live, and I'm not going to meet most of you anyway, so what the hell? Writing this helps me too, helps me figure out things that I can't verbalize, things that I fear to think about.

I guess, in discontentment, we all manage to find our sanctuaries when the questions and accusations become unbearable.


End file.
